


Men of Influence

by jcrowquill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrowquill/pseuds/jcrowquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the Holmes brothers has the capability of playing at higher level.  It isn't Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Men of Influence 权势顶端](https://archiveofourown.org/works/851795) by [jcrowquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrowquill/pseuds/jcrowquill), [melnakuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melnakuru/pseuds/melnakuru)



> I really wanted to see Mycroft/Moriarty because they're both powerful men with massive infrastructures and incredible intelligence. I think it works surprisingly well... more implied than implicit. Thank you to jim_in_westwood for beta and polkadotsquared for beta/Britpicking. (With regard to Britpicking, polkadotsquared primarily checked for dialogue/culture; I am sticking to American grammar and spelling because it's easier to be consistent in my own dialect.)
> 
> Originally posted on Livejournal (jcrowquill.livejournal.com) on 4/28/11, prior to Season 2. Please be kind. ;)

Mycroft watched as Anthea carefully applied one clean swipe of marmalade to his toast, then returned to reading the news on his laptop in an effort to make it look as though he was not obsessed with the state of his breakfast.  Oh God, he was ravenous.  If he had been a girl, it would have been acceptable for him to be openly jealous of his emaciated, self-absorbed younger brother. He would have had a host of catty girlfriends who would have told him that Sherlock had something wrong with him and that men liked some curves on their girls. But men don't talk about these things, so all there was to fill the morning silence was the scrape of the knife on the crisp golden surface of the bread and the tap of his fingertip on his touchpad.  
  
"Can I get anything else for you?"  Anthea asked.  He kept her as a reminder of what society expected him to want because sometimes in his disinterest he forgot what men were supposed to find attractive.  She was pretty, he often thought, but it was the same type of pretty as a flower or a piece of lampwork glass and she seemed scarcely more intelligent.  He did enjoy looking at her, though, and he always took pains to surround himself with lovely things.  
  
"No, no, I'm fine, thank you," he said briskly, reaching for the plate.  The cook must be getting divorced after all, he mused, though as he thought about it he couldn't retrace his steps that led from the china to that conclusion.  However he knew just as certainly as he would have if Sherlock had given him twenty outwardly insignificant details to support his own instant deduction.  
  
Sherlock deduced and Mycroft simply knew.  That was the key difference that made one suited to government and the other suited to... well, whatever it was that Sherlock did.  Criminal investigations required justifications and clear plotting from Point A to Point B;  Mycroft, in his odd, custom-made position, rarely had any need to explain himself.  
  
When his mobile buzzed, he knew without looking that it was not anyone he knew well.  
  
 ** _Hello sexy._**  
  
Mycroft sighed weightily and turned to his laptop, then entered a sequence of commands that triggered the front-mounted camera on his prankster's phone.  A picture flashed onto his screen of a plain white ceiling - a hotel - and a bottom-up view of a man's shoulder and chin.  The scratchy stubble gave him a few possibilities, but finding none of them quite conclusive his brain discarded all of them entirely.  He tapped a key to repeat the command and was rewarded with straight-on, smiling and posing picture of Jim Moriarty.  
 __  
 **You could have just asked.**  
  
It was a little surprising, perhaps, but nothing to really fret over.  He brought up the phone's GPS and placed him on his mental map, then wrote back:  
 __  
 **I'm not pleased with you for that whole business with my younger brother.  Mycroft Holmes**  
  
Why do the Holmes boys sign their texts?  I know it's you, Mycroft.  
  
It's polite, like signing a letter.  Mycroft Holmes  
  
It's not a letter, it's a text.  
  
Self-evidently. Mycroft Holmes  
  
He set the phone aside, resolving not to get dragged into chatting casually with the world's only consulting criminal.  
  
His mobile rang and he ignored it.  He was not starting this, not at 9 am on a Tuesday.  Tuesdays, he had realized long ago, were to be approached with extreme prejudice.  Almost every bad thing that had ever happened to him had happened on a Tuesday (and sometimes the bleed-over into Wednesday could be just as bad).  The ringing stopped as the call rolled over to voicemail, then started afresh.  
  
This happened three times before Mycroft set the phone to silent and resumed drinking his tea.  The toast had gotten cold and a little bit brittle, which was definitely not any improvement but didn't deter him from the meager diet breakfast.  Anthea was watching him in her vacant way as he ignored the vibrating silent ring.  
  
After five rings, there was a pleasant but almost disappointing silence.  It didn't last long before the phone buzzed to indicate that he had a message.  Mycroft looked at it for a moment before sighing weightily and playing it on speaker:  
  
"You really should consider leaving off the signature until you learn to text faster. Anyway, I'm not planning to spend 30 million quid to lure you out, but I'm of the mind that geniuses of our level should be on a first name basis.  That's hard to do when you're being so very standoffish!  You couldn't have thought I wouldn't be interested in you as well, Mycroft.  True, true, you're lazy...!  But I'd wager smarter than your brother, more willing to cross boundaries.  Yes, yes!  Sherlock's oblivious as to what those boundaries are, but you just step across willfully when it suits you.  I think it's cute how you follow him around, using his phone the way a biologist would a wild animal he's tagged.  Almost predatory, really.  I like that.  I'll call again later, I would love if you would pick up."  
  
"He does a good job carrying on a conversation by himself, doesn't he?"  Mycroft said snootily, resting his cheek against his hand.   
  
Anthea laughed, though it was the humorless laugh of someone who didn't really get the joke.  Mycroft thought for a moment that he might have hated her for it, humoring him by laughing at something that she didn't think was funny, but the feeling diminished and was rapidly replaced by affection, which was replaced by pity, which was just as quickly replaced by jealousy; how lovely the world must be when you can't recognize your place in its hierachy.  
  
The phone rang again and this time Mycroft answered it, "Hello."  
  
"The timing was good, wasn't it?  I knew you would have just finished the message, then made a snotty remark to your assistant.  You and your brother are similar in that you can't stop yourselves from listening to messages and you can't leave a text unanswered."  
  
He sighed through his nose, "Do you actually want something, or is this just a chat?"  
  
"Well," Jim replied, laughter and insanity just beneath the surface of his smooth, lightly musical voice, "I'd fancy a chat in person."  
  
"I'm not interested."  
  
"You should know by now I don't really take no for an answer."  
  
"I thought your game was with Sherlock?"  Mycroft asked, his voice trailing slightly upward at the end to give it the middle tone of half-question and half-reproachful statement.  He was genuinely disinterested, unlike Sherlock who only played at snobbish disinterest.  Mycroft wasn't bored, no not at all, and he didn't have any dangerous addictions whatsoever.  Was it stagnation?  He preferred to think of it as routine; he had things to be doing that kept him engaged at all times and a position that made him feel as though his intelligence was not utterly wasted.  
  
"A game, certainly, but I believe I'm smart enough to carry on more than one.  You two aren't so difficult, I have to admit, as you are both facing backwards to piece together what's already happened.  I can make an infinite number of things happen, my dear, dear friend."  
  
Mycroft found him grating, his gently rolling vowels and the chromatic scale of tones his voice tripped across in each sentence.  He sighed again, "I'm sure, but I'm not particularly interested... and were I to catch you, I wouldn't let you go--"  
  
"--I should hope not!--"  
  
"--just so I could start the whole thing over and catch you again later.  I am not at all amused by you and I am not entering into any of your ridiculous little puzzles."  
  
Jim's groan was deep but playful, "Oh, god, Mycroft!  You're so serious!"  
  
"You and I have no reason at all to interact," Mycroft commented, "I don't interfere with your livelihood--"  
  
"No, you don't, not directly.  But that isn't the point!"  At this point, he laughed quite brightly, as though this was just a normal conversation about any number of normal day to day things, like a funny television program or a quirky, awkward happening at the office.  Not that either of them worked in an office, exactly, "I am interested in you, a man of a similar sphere.  Sherlock is cute, sure, he's smart, of course.  But he's not in a position of power, not a man with a massive infrastructure.  He can't play on the same level as we could, my darling."  
  
It didn't surprise the elder Holmes, but it did give him pause as a strange warming of... something other than routine pressed at the back of his mind.  It was unusual to be praised, placed above his younger, better-looking, brilliant younger brother.  Of course it didn't matter and it certainly didn't change things; he wasn't Sherlock and he wasn't about to enter into dangerous situations just because someone was fiercely wanking on his ego.  "I am not playing."  
  
"You will," Moriarty told him in a sing-song voice, "You'll play and you'll love it.  Maybe it'll get you off your plush bottom and really using your brilliant little brain-box."  
  
He had a ready retort, but no opportunity to use it as the villain's statement was followed immediately by sharp little click of the line disconnecting.  Mild, slightly petulant Mycroft was suddenly struck by an unusual pang of fury that originated deep in his lower back and radiated out with sweeping fingers of adrenaline.   
  
"Who was that?"  Anthea asked, tilting her pretty head to the side as she regarded his slightly flushed face and drawn eyebrows.  
  
"A problem that we are going to be ignoring for the time being."  
  
\---  
  
Jim Moriarty proved to be a difficult problem to ignore, particularly when things began appearing on Mycroft's doorstep.  It started as small things - bits of thread which led to miscellaneous buttons, which led to gloves, which led to a pair of gloves stuffed with small, dead birds.  From there it progressed to a dead cat, a large overcoat, and then a young woman's body.  
  
A reporter, Mycroft thought dispassionately as he looked over the corpse that had been curled up as though she was just sleeping.  Just past thirty, divorced, no children.  Played the guitar, had seasonal allergies.  Allergy medication replaced by poison.  Sad, really, but not sad enough that he could really summon any strong emotion.   
  
"It reminds me of a cat we once had," Anthea commented a few days later as she looked over the second body with a slightly concerned eye.  It was an older man with long, strong fingers who Mycroft instantly identified as a philharmonic cellist. "He would leave all sorts of little birds and mice and other dead things on our doorstep as gifts.  We weren't very receptive, except my mum who would praise him for providing for us.  We all thought she was crazy."  
  
The third was a tall, slim man with curly, verging-on-black hair.  Killed by a blow to the back of the head, but he had been unconscious at the time.  Stoned.  
  
The police thought the whole thing suspicious, but if there was anything that was forbidden it was to make a big spectacle of any event surrounding Mycroft Holmes.  Detective Inspector Lestrade introduced himself officially for the first time and commented that though they had known of each other through Sherlock for quite awhile, it was good to finally put a face to the name.  Mycroft agreed with the stubble-cheeked detective inspector and watched as they carried off the body.  
  
"Would you like me to call in your brother?"  Lestrade asked, raising his peppery eyebrows.  Mycroft wondered how he could have such a boyish face but so much gray hair, but even before he could complete the thought his mind supplied the easy answer of "stress."  He wondered what it was like to have the leisure to wonder, rather than having one's mind fill in the blanks before the sentence had even been completed.  But just as quickly, he realized that it would be nice, but frustrating.  At least knowing had a certain satisfaction, even if it left a certain sort of demotivation.  
  
He shook his head, "No, thank you though."  
  
There were no more bodies for a time.  However, the following week there were two more string musicians, left tidily on the front steps.  The neighbors were beginning to talk.  The symbolism wasn't wasted on Mycroft, nor did he consider the threat to be entirely empty.  
  
It wasn't until a very expensive violin was left on his doorstep that he replied to the text he'd received the first day of the strange "gifts.'  _**Are you ready to play yet?**_ it had asked.   
  
 __ **Yes. Mycroft Holmes  
**  
  
\---  
  
  
That was how Mycroft Holmes found himself standing in the bright morning sunlight for the first time in a number of years, for the first time since his father had died, for the first time since he'd tried to pull himself out of the bizarre coma of intelligence-induced apathy that he'd sank into after finding his purpose professionally.  It wasn't that he didn't like it, it was more that the evening suited him more.  Indoors suited him more.  
  
He looked across the grassy lawn of Regent Park, remarking to himself that there were at least three things in his line of vision that needed maintenance and that he would have to have something done about them.  Anthea, in her cute designer sunglasses, trotted along beside him with her gaze riveted to her mobile. Texting, as usual, but Mycroft believed in the importance of multitasking, so he rarely, if ever, reprimanded her.  
  
This was where he was supposed to be, he knew by the coded message in the news broadcast that morning, the one that came through just between the local and financial segments.  Impressive, he had thought, having an easy line-in for the mass media.  It was nothing he didn't have himself, of course, but his own network was rather unique; there were few areas of British life to which he did not have some degree of access.  
  
The girl sitting on the park bench was not reading, he thought as they approached.  Her head was slightly bowed and her long fringe fell forward slightly to mask her eyes.  Her lips were parted not because she was reading to herself, but because her jaw was slack.  She was another pretty, broken thing, he thought with his usual detachment.  He sat down beside her casually, looking her over in more detail from her style of dress to the items she had with her.  
  
He pulled out his phone and texted, _**Schoolteacher, killed by a diabetic attack brought on by her husband tampering with her insulin injections. Mycroft Holmes**_  
  
There was a small pause before Moriarty replied, _**And who is she?**_  
  
Mycroft paused, looking at the still body of the woman, __**Does it matter? Mycroft Holmes**  
  
I imagine she would think so.  
  
It will take some research. Mycroft Holmes  
  
It was research that he was unwilling to do.  He had no interest in finding out more or even taking pains to verify his deduction.  That was a job for someone else, someone like Scotland Yard or Sherlock Holmes.  
  
 __ **This is only a friendly game... So I'll give you a little time to track that down.  But if that’s the case, I want you to give me more - I want to know how you know and why it happened.**  
  
Fine.  Mycroft Holmes  
  
At that point, he dialed NSY to report a dead body.  He then left a message on his brother's voicemail to come immediately; they were practically just around the corner anyway.  
  
Sherlock's definition of “immediately” varied wildly depending on who asked.  For Mycroft-related situations, it meant "whenever he felt like it."  In this case, Sherlock felt like making an appearance at around 11 am with his assisting flatmate in tow.  
  
Mycroft was favorably disposed toward John Watson, being that he kept Sherlock eating somewhat regularly and discouraged the sort of bad habits that would put the self-important snot back into rehab.  Sherlock was much too proud to let his lover - yes, finally his lover, Mycroft had concluded some weeks before - see him at his intellectual lowpoint, in the questionable ecstasy of his darkest vice.  In addition, John seemed to be a rare example of a modern gentleman.  It wasn't that John was without faults - he obviously had moments of selfishness, pettiness, darkness, and indecision like any other man - but on the whole he made some effort to both take ownership of his negative behaviors and encourage self-improvement in Sherlock.  He also had a pleasant manner, which could be a refreshing buffer between Mycroft's insistence and Sherlock's petulance.  
  
At the moment he felt less favorably disposed toward Sherlock, who was already making minimalistic greetings to and self-satisfied jibes about Lestrade's staff.  His pale eyes lit on Mycroft and he asked shortly, "So you're the one who found it?"  
  
"Her, Sherlock, her.  It's, I mean _she's_ a woman," John reprimanded wearily.  He certainly tried and Mycroft appreciated that.  
  
Sherlock however continued on, "It seems odd, what brings you out during daylight hours?"  His gaze was keen and somewhat piercing and his eyebrows were raised in the trademark Holmes family disdain.  
  
Mycroft pressed his lips together and smiled, "I'm just full of surprises."  
  
His brother snorted and turned back to the body, then took a few measured steps around it, looking it over from all angles, "She was mostly dead when she was brought here.  Someone dressed her before she left her house, but she was fairly limp at the time...not stiff, though.  See how it's all at odds with itself?  No purse.  Yes.  It would probably bear looking into her family..."  
  
The elder Holmes nodded to himself.  Yes, the clothes were not quite right, were they?  Her shoes were on the wrong feet and everything seemed a bit skewed, but her body's pose was natural enough that she likely had been seated that way rather than posed after her death.   
  
Sherlock was making a face that scrunched his nose a little and twisted his mouth.  It wasn't attractive and Mycroft, as always, had to fight the childish impulse to tell him that he shouldn't make faces lest his face get stuck like that.  However, at the moment he was looking for his brother's expertise and if looking as though he had been sucking on lemons helped, so be it.  Finally, the brilliant consulting detective said, "She went into a diabetic coma before she died.  Look at the way her hands and feet are colored, and see how there are several fresh punctures in her arm.  
  
"Are you sure it's not drugs?"  Lestrade asked.  
  
"Yes, she has a little bit of callous built up on each of her fingertips, and there are other little marks where she would have tested her blood sugar," Sherlock said, reaching for the dead woman's hand and turning it over to point out the marks to the detective inspector.  Anderson, a dour forensic specialist, protested half-heartedly about contamination, but no one seemed to be paying attention to him.  
  
"So why didn't she go to hospital?"  John asked, looking her over, "She would have been able to tell that she was having a hypoglycemic attack... it's very rare that people are unaware of the symptoms."  
  
"There is a fresher injection mark here, most likely she thought that she was treating it adequately... and then when she succumbed to unconsciousness, no one tended to her.  Murder by negligence..."  Sherlock mused, sitting down beside her and hiking her skirt up a bit with a total lack of propriety to show the history of other insulin injections.  
  
John hurriedly smoothed the skirt back down, then rubbed his hands on his own legs as though warding off a chill in his fingers.  He had seen a lot of dead bodies, Mycroft reflected as he watched him, but he still wasn't desensitized to touching them.  It was curious, but he supposed that he couldn't entirely relate.  This woman had been dead for less than half a day and aside from some unnatural stiffening and being a bit pale with some blue on her extremities... well, she was just a woman.  
  
Lestrade made a few notes, "So right, we'll look into the family.  Do you want to come?"  
  
"What is her name?"  Mycroft asked mildly, slipping his hands into his pockets.  
  
The taller brother looked about for a moment, then shook his head, "We'll find out."  
  
"Well... do let me know," Mycroft said casually.  
  
At this point, Sherlock lifted his chin and turned his full scrutiny on him.  He widened his eyes at him for a moment in a way that was probably intended to be meaningful, but Mycroft blithely ignored.  Sherlock made an impatient sound, "You are unusually interested, Mycroft... and I somehow doubt that this is a matter of national security."  
  
Mycroft smiled in his slightly pinched, disdainfully polite way, "Well, having been the one to find her I do feel a slight draw to her story.  Do let me know what you find out, Sherlock."  
  
The expression he got in response was untrusting, suspicious, and oddly concerned all at once.  Only for a moment, though, before it rapidly turned haughty and self-centered.  Sherlock Holmes laughed a little and shook his head, "I will if I remember."  
  
\---  
  
It was actually John who gave Mycroft the updates on the case because Sherlock was actively ignoring his calls and texts.  The woman, Elaine Matthis, was a school teacher who hadn't called off that morning but had never made it in either.  She was a Type 1 diabetic who regulated her blood sugar through testing and self-administered injections.  None of this surprised Mycroft.  
  
Nor did it surprise him to find out that Mr. Matthis was a rather well-paid barrister who had recently become very serious about a mistress, but had no prenuptual agreement with his present wife.  Mycroft was even less surprised to learn that they found several prepared insulin injections had been modified to be little more than water and a little bit of salt.  Mr. Matthis admitted, on forceful presentation of a perfect timeline by Sherlock, that he had made his wife think that she was correctly tending to her illness, then he let her drop into a haze where he guided her through dressing, then left her unconscious in the park.  
  
Listed out, it was exactly what he had figured out on his own.  But here were the details, the verifications.  He sat back on his sofa and texted Moriarty a tidy little summary before resuming the book he was reading about the physics of modern electronics.  
 __ ****  
Very nice, looks like you were right after all.  
  
Of course.  Mycroft Holmes  
  
Pity you needed ickle Sherlock to explain to you how your own brain works.  
  
Mycroft scowled and set the phone aside, forcefully looking back to the page he was reading.  The phone didn't buzz again, but he could feel the unanswered text vibrating in his thoughts as though he was being constantly pinged by the stupid supervillain.  
  
Finally, he snatched his phone up again and replied ****_I didn't need him to do anything.  I just don't have the time to be trotting across the city. Mycroft Holmes_  
  
Lazy.  
  
Busy. Mycroft Holmes  
  
You're ridiculous.  Next time, you're going to have to follow through on your own, no help.  
  
Must there be a next time? Mycroft Holmes  
  
He knew what the answer would be, and while he would have to have speculated on the reason, it was all too immediately obvious.  Boredom. He understood boredom.  It was boredom that led his brother to throw himself into unhealthy addictions as a means to escape having too much mind and not enough to expend it on.  He himself was not bored; he was a step beyond, having one-upped his brother years ago.  He was apathetic, which was boredom plus resignation, executed with a dry panache.  He was too smart for just about everything and everyone he interacted with.  He could understand boredom, and he knew that James Moriarty wasn't old enough yet to have crossed the threshhold into apathy.   
  
Something about this ridiculous exchange of texts and the unusual, flirtatious gifts of dead things made Mycroft feel something akin to affection.  It wasn't affection, by any means, nor was it hatred.  It was a more complex emotion called interest.  He was interested in James Moriarty and the prospects that he could present, the puzzles that they could craft for one another like a self-fulfilling cycle of create and destroy.   
  
He felt very slightly engaged, which made him feel more alive, more living and breathing, than he had in some time.  He wondered, then knew immediately, that this was why Sherlock had remarked "brilliant" rather than "disgusting" to Jim's earlier puzzles and why his brother had almost taken a poison capsule to prove his own intelligence.  It wasn't flattery, he was much too smart for that.  They both were.  It was the captivation of being opposed by someone who could actually be an equal.  
  
Jim was right, really.  The games Sherlock could play were limited in intensity because of his limited financial resources and non-existent infrastructure.  By contrast, Mycroft could see into Jim's hotel rooms, find him when he wasn't trying to be found, and tighten a snare around him that he wouldn't be able to escape.  Checkmate, his mind concluded, though he didn't know how it had arrived at that point and the sudden clarity of it jarred him slightly.  
  
 __ **Of course.  I've already set it up.**  
  
I'm not impressed. Mycroft Holmes  
  
You don't know that yet.  Xxxxx  
  
What are the x’s? Mycroft Holmes.  
  
Why, kisses, Mycroft.  Certainly you’ve seen that before?  
  
Yes, but I had not expected them in this context. Mycroft Holmes.  
  
Mycroft huffed to himself and tried to immerse himself again in his book.  He did enjoy greedily consuming text, filling his mind with information that only served to make him better and brighter.  There was no real purpose to it, just as there was no real purpose to eating a good chocolate, but it made things seem more engaging.  Enjoyable.  
 __ ****  
Come out to dinner with me.  
  
No. Mycroft Holmes.  
  
Why not?  
  
I have no interest in dinner. Mycroft Holmes  
  
Now you're just lying; I know you're interested in dinner, you're just not interested in dinner with me.  You're a great lover of fine food.  
  
Mycroft gritted his teeth.  __**Fat jokes do not endear you to me. Mycroft Holmes**  
  
It's not a fat joke!  I'm hurt, Mycroft!  You're just a man to whom demi-glacé means something, a man who knows the value of a fine wine!  
  
Mycroft set his phone down and made a good effort at ignoring it.  But as Moriarty had pointed out last time, neither he nor Sherlock were capable of letting someone else have the last word. He picked up his phone and wrote: __**Not interested.  Mycroft Holmes**  
  
Would you stop signing every single text?  It's just getting a bit silly.  
  
No. Mycroft Holmes.  
  
This time he set his phone aside and forcefully resumed his book.  There were a few moments of tense silence before he received a photo.  He looked at it a moment, then replied __**Don't insult me. Mycroft Holmes**  
  
What?  
  
If this is your second challenge, it's idiotic... You organized the flash crash in the American stock market last year and you're at this moment attempting to create a similar sell-off in the London Stock Exchange to benefit your own holdings. Mycroft Holmes  
  
Oh?  
  
 _ **Yes.  I recognize The Source, of course.  It's very unsubtle to send something like that.  I already know all of your major stock positions, Jim.**_ It's ridiculously simple.  **_Mycroft Holmes._**  
  
There was a long pause before Jim Moriarty simply replied, ****_Ah, touché._  
  
Mycroft smiled boyishly to himself and set the phone aside.  That text didn't require a reply; the victory was enough.


	2. Chapter 2

It was over a week later when Mycroft received a curious text that was not from his criminal antagonist. It was a short, strange message from his younger brother.

_**Are you in some sort of trouble? SH** _

He felt an anomalous swell of affection for the lanky golden child. Sherlock, the object of his rivalry, reason for requisite superiority, origin of nine-tenths of his insecurities, the only one on this green and blue marble who could unravel his mind for him, and consequently the only person he loved. Sherlock had pulled his fluffy head out of his malnourished arse to ask him if he was all right.

He wondered if he was all right, or if he was actually in trouble. He had subtly enlisted his brother's assistance in Jim's last two puzzles (one murder, one kidnapping). He had readily supplied the answers but the reasons for his almost supernatural knowledge never came immediately to mind. As such, he didn't have the time or inclination to do the research. It wasn't his way; he had a staff, after all, because he wasn't really made to work. Everyone knew this.

Yet he knew that Jim would make outside assistance impossible on the fifth and final task.

He wrote back, **No, thank you for asking though. Mycroft Holmes**

**_Am I in some sort of trouble then? SH_ **

Damn him for being so insufferably observant. He replied, _**Don't be so dramatic. Mycroft Holmes**_

_**It's something to do with Moriarty, isn't it? SH** _

_**No. Mycroft Holmes** _

**_God, Mycroft, you're really not going to tell me? SH_ **

He slipped his phone into his pocket and ignored the vibrations of further texts, which came regularly every ten minutes as Sherlock sent him increasingly antagonistic texts. Finally around three o'clock the texts ceased. Mycroft sighed to himself, playing Solitaire fretfully on his laptop. Dull, time wasting, lazy, he admonished, though he didn't stop.

 _ **Hey.**_ Jim said in his first text of the day. _**How are you?**_

**_Fine. Mycroft Holmes_ **

**_Fine and laconic?_ **

**_Just fine. Mycroft Holmes_ **

**_I like you in that suit._ **

Mycroft paused to look around, then walked over to his desk and opened his laptop. He navigated through the usual security, then opened one of his many surveillance programs to initiate a sweep of the immediate vicinity for any broadcasting bugs or closed circuit cameras. He sighed weightily, picking out a tiny camera located above his desk. He looked up in that direction and raised his hand in greeting, then started the sequences of commands to locate exactly where his rival was staying.

_**Hello to you too. Aren't you precious?** _

The laptop made a pleasant plinking sound to notify the elder Holmes that it had located the source of the text signal and plotted it onto the map. Mycroft tapped into the camera network to pull up a visual of Jim Moriarty as viewed by a traffic camera pointing at his hotel room window.

_**Aren't you going to say thank you or give a polite answering compliment, Mycroft? I thought the Holmes brothers were better bred than that.** _

Mycroft watched as Jim set his phone down so he could button the collar of his well-cut dress shirt. The consulting criminal petulantly flung his arm in the direction of a tall, muscular blond in a slim-fitting black suit. Mycroft recognized him as Sebastian Moran, one of the world's premiere snipers. Moran buttoned the cuff of his shirt, smiling and making some remark that made Moriarty laugh and smack him before offering the other wrist for the same treatment. Mycroft watched with strange curiosity, wondering at the unexpected intimacy. He looked over at Anthea, who might be considered to be similar in role to Sebastian Moran, and tried to picture her buttoning his shirt for him. He felt a twinge of dull jealousy.

Anthea tilted her pretty head to the side and considered her employer thoughtfully, "Is it Moriarty?"

"Yes," he said as he texted, **_Why do you need a compliment from me when you have Mr. Moran?_**

"Is everything all right?" his assistant asked, frowning at him in distant concern, "Do you need anything?"

"No..." Mycroft replied thoughtfully as he wanted for a response to his text.

**_Aww, there's no need to be jealous. A compliment from a paid employee doesn't count as much as grudging adoration from an adversary._ **

"No, you don't need anything, or no, not everything is all right?" Anthea pressed. It was obvious that she was concerned and attempting to take care of him, though he was always a difficult man to tend to because he was simultaneously needy and fiercely independent. Under normal circumstances he might have been almost moved by the fact that he seemed to have her full attention, but this time he barely noticed because his attention was on Jim and his sniper. Sebastian's hand was lightly on his shoulder, rubbing with fingers that were at the moment gentle but looked as though they often turned passionately violent. When he realized that that they were also lovers, the new sensation of jealousy increased in intensity.

 _ **You won't have that from me**_ , Mycroft wrote irritably, his fingers petulantly stabbing the letters. _**Mycroft Holmes**_

On his screen, Jim laughed luxuriously. Mycroft's shoulders stiffened.

_**You know, if you want to watch me, we could just Skype.** _

_**I don't have time for this. Mycroft Holmes**_   Mycroft cut the feed from the camera that Moriarty had planted in his office. Tedious. Why hadn't he done it sooner? The reason that his brain had supplied didn't make sense, so he discarded it before it had really even registered.

_**Why not? What else do you have to do?** _

_**Work. Mycroft Holmes** _

_**So motivated. I love that about you.** _

Mycroft gritted his teeth as he felt color come to his cheeks. He was surprised by how angry Jim was capable of making him; many times, he'd found his responses to Jim were actually backed with emotion. He forced himself to take a steadying breath and press his anger back down into his gut. When he replied again, he felt that his calm was firmly in place, _**You're in London, so I am assuming you're here to give your final challenge in person? Mycroft Holmes**_

_**Yes, my dear, I am. Won't you join me at nine?** _

_**Of course. Where? Mycroft Holmes** _

_**Oh, you'll find me. I'll see you soon, Mycroft.** _

\---

It was shortly before nine when Mycroft approached the derelict Fulham Power Station. Anthea had left him and taken the car, where she awaited further instructions. As he looked up at the partially demolished, partially renovated building, he felt a slight thrill run through his body. It was exciting, he had to admit, coming to a place like this by himself in the darkness between dusk and when the night rhythms set themselves in motion to play out until dawn. Distant lights played off of the many small panes that made up the large windows, many of them replaced and many still broken. There was a sensation of walking outside of time, as though he, like Shroedinger's cat, was in state of being alive or dead that couldn't be determined, rendering him simultaneously both. He felt strangely depressive, even more strangely eager, and overall uncomfortably adrenalized.

Had he ever enjoyed high stress situations? He couldn't adequately judge; he had been in numerous situations that other people found stressful, but this was the first time since he was a child that he had been personally invested in any of the puzzles he had worked out. Military secrets, nuclear doomsday, and even the secret inner workings of other people's minds never engaged him or made him care. There were several things about this final challenge that piqued his interest and made his heart beat quickly at his temple and in the pit of his stomach.

When he pushed open the conveniently unlocked door, the sight that greeted him was unsurprising and almost exactly what he had pictured. Pale emergency lighting illuminated the enormous storage area, defining a number of dusty objects and columns of boxes and equipment. Mycroft stood still, letting his eyes adjust to the light. A small part of him buried deeply within basked in the urban decay and the cool, quiet stillness.

One of the still shapes ahead unmelded from the line of silhouettes, "Hello, Mycroft."

"James Moriarty?"

"Jim is fine," he said brightly, bringing up the lights through an app on his smartphone. "My, how nice you look. Did you dress up for me?"

His voice verged on melodious and had the same rolling variation in volume and pitch as their phone conversations. It was charming, jarring, and irritating all at once; from texting so often, Mycroft had almost forgotten how the consulting criminal's speech sounded.

Jim stood slightly contraposto as he slipped his phone back into the pocket of his deep garnet suit. The collar was sharp, neatly pressed, and his crisp white shirtcuffs protruded exactly the right amount from beyond the smartly cut jacket's sleeves. At this distance, it was difficult to tell the maker by cut alone, but Mycroft noted the slightly padded shoulder and light waist definition that identified it as an Anderson and Sheppard Bespoke Suit. It followed the lines of Jim's body in some places and created a more flattering one in others. Mycroft continued to assess his tie and his handcrafted oxfords with the full knowledge that he was delaying the inevitable moment of looking at his face. It seemed too personal.

He sighed as though bored, "No, I didn't... can I see the next task you have for me? I'd like to retrieve Sherlock and go home."

Jim laughed cheerfully, "Sherlock?"

"I know you have him," he said, nodding more to himself than to his rival.

"I had hoped to leave the big reveal," he paused to chuckle to himself, "for a little while yet... But yes, my dear, he is here and waiting to see his big brother solve a murder."

The spike of anxiety surprised Mycroft, who was unused to having bodily reactions to his thoughts. His expression remained unmoved, "Well, let's get this started and finished, then, Mr. Moriarty."

As Jim walked slightly closer to meet him, Mycroft finally met the criminal's deep brown eyes. They were so dark that it was difficult to even distinguish his pupils from his irises; the overall effect was like looking into bottomless wells or staring at cigarette burns in cloth where you weren't sure if you were looking at something that was charred black or burned completely through. It was almost hypnotic, particularly when combined with Moriarty's fine features and facile mouth.

Jim laughed to himself, "How do you feel about sharing a rival with your brother, Mycroft?" He said "rival" with a lascivious tone that all but replaced "rival" with "lover." He stopped around a meter away from the other man, staying just past arm's reach. Without waiting for a response, he lifted his slightly small hand and gestured for the elder Holmes to follow him through the winding rows of storage.

They passed palates of boxes that Mycroft could readily identify as old electrical equipment and others that were just as obviously weapons and ammunition. Fulham Power Station had once been a thriving electric station, but since having been decommissioned in the late seventies, it had been used for storage. Apparently Jim made use of it for storage as well, as certain pockets seemed more like miniature armories than anything else.

At the center of the labryrinth, Jim stopped and slipped his hands into his coat pockets again. On the floor was a man's stiffening body, surrounded by a coagulating pool of blood.

Mycroft pursed his lips and looked at him, soaking in the details the way a plant absorbed sunshine. He rapidly synthesized an image, a fast-motion video of the man running through the maze of pallets and boxes, looking around in terror before taking a perfect shot to the head and slumping to the ground. He looked back to Moriarty, "Just him?"

"Whenever you're ready," Jim said with a gracious smile. His tone was surprisingly even and sane.

"He was shot in the head by your sniper, Sebastian Moran, for poor business dealings. He's been dead approximately four hours."

Jim's smile broadened, "Very nice, Mycroft. But you'll need to go deeper."

Mycroft sighed, cocking his head to the side and putting his own hands in his pockets, "What do you want to know?"

"Oh, you know. How you figured it out, who he is - excuse me, was - and why Moran killed him."

Mycroft frowned, "You already know all these things, so why do I need to tell you?"

"Are you incapable?" Jim Moriarty asked, quirking his perfectly shaped left eyebrow.

"Of course not," Mycroft replied indignantly. As soon as he said it, though, he was struck by a twinge of doubt that almost made his hands shake.

"Well, for some excitement, let's raise the stakes. Get your heart pounding, blood moving, and all that," he pulled out his phone and tapped out a text message to a jaunty rhythm as though he was singing in his thoughts. "It'll just be a moment. Go on, you can start thinking now if you'd like. I don't mind giving you a head start."

The solid blond gunman came into view from around one of the banks of wooden storage crates, pushing a low dolly. Perched on top of the cart was a plain metal folding chair, to which Sherlock was tied. He was, predictably, gagged. Mycroft knew immediately that it was for the criminals' sanity rather than because they thought that Sherlock could actually succeed at calling for help.

Mycroft met his brother's pale eyes, assessing immediately that he was lightly sedated but otherwise unharmed. Sherlock looked tired, bored, and irritated. Mycroft could tell that his younger sibling was more unsettled by the temporary inability to speak than any fear of coming to harm. He noted the strange means by which he was tied to the chair, each ankle tied to one of the chair legs and a wrist tied separately to either of the metal bars that connected the seat to the back and felt his own pulse quicken.

"You're not going to kill him," Mycroft observed.

"No..." Moriarty laughed, "Not yet, not until I find some truly spectacular way to do it. He definitely deserves an interesting death, and preferably after I have thoroughly discredited him."

"Then I assume that there is some other threat hanging over me that relates to him?"

He laughed again, this time a little higher and a little bit crazier, "Yes, of course. Moran, if you would?"

Moran carefully cut the rope securing Sherlock's left hand to the chair. His fingertips were slightly blue-tinged and the rope had left red indentations and small abrasions across his slim, pale wrist. Sherlock watched his captor, his breath quickening visibly as Moran manuevered his hand in his own to hold the knife against the inside of the joints between his palm and his middle and index fingers.

When Sherlock turned his eyes to Mycroft, they were surprisingly calm. Mycroft would have almost said trusting. Moriarty smiled, pleased with himself for how this was all settling out, "So... you can have five minutes, Mycroft. Tell me what I want to know. Prove to me that you're a worthy opponent."

Mycroft looked away from Moriarty and fixed his gaze on the corpse in front of him. The overall answer was at the forefront of his mind, but the path from the evidence to his assessment of it was completely blank. The man was shot by Moran using an American-model small-caliber sniping rifle. He could hear the boom echoing through the open area. Moran had been up on one of the higher towers of storage crates, the dead man had been running. But why, and how had he known?

"One minute down and not a word?" Moriarty mused, his voice a little bit mocking. "Moran, ungag Sherlock. Sherlock, give him some encouragement, but no facts. Come on, boys, I want to see how you work."

Sherlock was visibly relieved to have his mouth free. He stretched his jaw, then said, "All right, Mycroft. Just say things aloud. Just look, really look. Talk it out. What do you see?" His voice was a little hoarse and his tone sounded as though he was trying his best to be patient and encouraging. It fell flat, of course, but Mycroft knew him well enough to know he was trying.

Mycroft looked at him, watching as Moran caught Sherlock's hand again and pressed the blade skillfully to his skin. Sherlock looked over, then licked his lips. He had gone slightly paler.

"Ah..." Mycroft began, "He's face-down and the bullet wound is right above his ear. It would have passed right through his brain, so it would have only been one shot."

"All right... so where does that mean that the shooter was?" There it was, the hint of cloying, carefully controlled condescension.

Mycroft looked at the body thoughtfully, then pointed to a cluster of tall stacks of boxes. Sherlock nodded approvingly, "Yes, that’s good. Keep going… this isn’t hard. I’m not just saying that either, this is so much easier than you’re making it out to be. How do you know where he was? Think!"

Mycroft frowned as he looked at the body, then back up at where he had determined that Moran had been, "The angle."

Sherlock looked over at Moriarty, who nodded encouragingly. Jim smiled, "See, this isn't so bad. And how do you know it was Moran?"

Again, his mind came up blank. He looked at Moran, then at Moriarty, then at the dead man. Sherlock groaned, "Come on, you lazy bastard... you know this! What is--" Moran pressed the blade against his skin a little, not quite enough to break the skin but enough to startle him. Sherlock pressed his full lips together.

Mycroft looked at Moran, then the man on the ground and said, "Because Moran is one of the top snipers in the world, so why should you hire anyone else? The bullet is small caliber, which would..." His logic faltered for a moment, then he continued, "It would be consistent with the kinds of rifles that Moran would favor because of his background..."

"Good, good!" Jim said, almost squirming with glee. "Now, why did I have him killed?"

"Because you wanted me to have a body to talk about?" Mycroft asked a little snottily.

"Stop wasting time!" Sherlock snapped impatiently, "My fingers, Mycroft!"

Moriasty tsked, glancing over at Sherlock, "He does have a point, Mycroft, you're already three minutes down. We can't waste time, can we?"

Sherlock broke in, "Mycroft, you've read all about him, what sort of things does he - ah..." He gasped when Moran pressed the knife against his hand again, forcing the well-crafted blade into his skin just enough to draw blood.

Mycroft closed his eyes and drew deeply from his mind, "He obviously inconvenienced you... he... tried to steal from you." He opened his eyes, looking at the corpse's hand, as he continued "because he didn't know who or what you were."

He could see it in his thoughts, the man taking something and trying to run. It would be in his hand or in his pocket, and it would be small. Like a key, or an access card.

"What was it that he took?"

"I..." Mycroft licked his lips, "I don't know... a key, an access card..."

"Possibly, but which one?"

"For God's sake, Mycroft, he's probably still--" At this point, Moran ran out of patience for Sherlock's over-enthusiastic, desperate but still somehow petulant interjections and cuffed him in the back of the head, knocking the younger Holmes out cold. Mycroft drew a sharp breath through his teeth, feeling a spike of hatred for the sniper as the blond laughed to himself. Moriarty seemed amused as well, though the smaller man's expression was fairly difficult to read.

Mycroft couldn't reason out what he had taken beyond the fact that it was small. He had no one else to perform the legwork for him and his time was running out. He licked his lips, then lowered himself to a crouch beside the body. The cool blood squelched beneath the leather soles of his shoes as he leaned down and hesitantly slipped his hand into the dead man's pocket. There was nothing there. In his hand, however, there was a stiff plastic card between the cold fingers. Mycroft carefully drew it out and said, "An access card..."

"To?"

Mycroft wiped the card on the man's jacket, then said, "A power facility south of here."

"Good, wonderful. Now. Last question and you only have a minute," Moriarty said, glancing over at the unconscious consulting detective and then back to the body, "Who is he?"

Mycroft blinked at him, "How the hell am I supposed to know that?"

Moriarty laughed a little, "Come on, it isn't so difficult. Do you really like having everyone just... give you the answers to everything? Think about it, wasn't it somewhat lovely being able to find out for yourself that he had the access card?"

Mycroft looked about a bit frantically, knowing that the answer had to be there, within the line of vision. It had to be there. He looked quickly at Sherlock as though searching his still face for some sort of assistance or knowledge. He had to set aside habit and he had to think, not just rely on the things that his mind did for him unconsciously. He stared at the body, the soft, bristly brushcut that swept back very slightly from his temples. Military. He said aloud, "Military."

"More, Mycroft!"

"I can't!" Mycroft hissed furiously.

"Well, the only thing Sherlock uses those fingers for is playing violin... he shouldn't miss them too much..."

He wanted to bellow at him in fury like an animal or throw him into one of the towers of boxes and break his back. He wanted to kill him, he wanted to dominate him. He wanted to shoot Moran with his own gun or slit the mindless blond's throat with the entry card he'd taken out of this man's lifeless fingers. Mycroft's breath caught as he realized what it was that he was forgetting. The actual, physical world. He reached into the man's other pocket and pulled out a government issued ID card. Photo ID. He held it up triumphantly.

Moriarty cackled, "Oh, excellent. Very good, Mycroft.... and don't you feel good?"

Moran released Sherlock's hand, seeming somewhat disappointed, and said, "Well, that’s about all of that. I'll fetch the car, Jim." And just as abruptly, Sherlock was left unguarded with one hand untied. His mouth was slightly open and his head was tilted slightly to the side.

Mycroft got to his feet and hurriedly moved to his brother. Jim stayed exactly where he was, which put him closer to both of them than he normally allowed himself to be. The felon smiled in his odd way as he watched overbearing Mycroft Holmes fumbling to untie Sherlock's other wrist, then examining at the lightly cut palm of his other hand.

"It really was quite good," Jim told him in a soft, dangerously congratulatory voice. He knelt down beside Mycroft, his dark eyes seeming even darker and even less human, "You feel good now, don't you? Accomplished, interested as you haven't been in years. Why Mycroft, you did something that people usually rely on your younger, better brother to do...!"

Mycroft's spine prickled. He was right. Beneath his relief at Sherlock's safety, then was a deep feeling of pride and power. He felt capable. Sherlock had always told him that his deductions, and even his intelligence, were worthless because he couldn't use them to create a product. There was nothing desirable about Mycroft Holmes, the smarter but lazier brother, the responsible one who was somehow even more alone than his standoffish, addict sibling. He had found the answers to the final questions by himself.

He looked over at Jim, feeling an dark, unwelcome gratitude to him. It warmed him in an uncomfortable way and the proximity made him aware of every analyzable detail of the other man's appearance. The slight stubble on his chin and upper lip, the small bruise on the side of his neck just above his collar in a place too intimate for a fight. He licked his lips, then said quietly, his voice level, "When you go outside... you will find that perhaps you have not been so unpredictable as you thought, or that perhaps I am not as incapable of anticipating the future as you had said earlier."

Moriarty's expressive mouth curved up at the corner and his eyes asked "Oh, really?" even though there was a perfect, unbroken silence for that instant.

"I have associates as well, Mr. Moriarty. When you go to your car, you will find Moran is unconscious. Drugged with gas whose release was triggered by his key in the ignition. Around his first two fingers on his left hand, you will see a red ribbon."

Jim's expression was not surprised, it was intrigued. He leaned slightly closer, still smiling.

"He only uses them to steady the barrel of his gun, am I correct?" Mycroft's smile was tight and superior.

"That's..." Jim laughed, his voice low and surprisingly sultry, "Hot."

He leaned over and kissed Mycroft soundly, wrapping his arm around the thicker man's waist and pulling him up flush against his front. Mycroft made a sound of protest, moving his hands up in surprise as Jim slipped his tongue artfully into his mouth.

Just as suddenly, the kiss was over and Jim was laughing lowly. Mycroft stared, wondering how things had progressed to that (his mind supplied no ready path, though he supposed it wasn't so surprising) and praying that his brother was still unconscious. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried to sound unaffected though he was slightly breathless and he could feel the bloom of warmth in his cheeks, "While I may not be able to prevent you from hurting the people I care for, don't think I won't or can't hurt you back. I'm not interfering with your livelihood, but that could change very, very easily--"

"God, Mycroft, keep talking," Jim laughed, making an orgasmic sound, "You're fucking sexy when you're keyed up like this. I knew you'd feel good. Let's fu--"

That was when Mycroft punched him. It wasn't the best execution; he wasn't Sherlock and didn't normally have any fight instinct in him at all. Nonetheless, the contact was solid and knocked the wind out of the smaller man.

Mycroft murmured, "THAT feels good, Jim. Thank you." He turned, his hands shaking slightly, and untied Sherlock's ankles, "Come on, Sherlock, wake up. Let's go home."

Jim was laughing, slightly higher and slightly crazier, as soon as he got his breath back, "Oh... Mycroft..." He gasped, laughing again as he got to his feet with his hand still pressed to his abdomen. "We will have to do this again... you... you are the one who can play on a higher level. Sherlock is... well, he's fucking brill, but... God, I wish I could just... roll the two of you into one perfect genius..."

Sherlock came around, though he seemed a little bit groggy. He groaned, "Fuck... Mycroft..." He suddenly seemed to regain his memory of the last few minutes because he almost frantically stretched his long hand out in front of himself, then breathed a weary sigh of relief, "What happened..."

Mycroft realized suddenly that Jim had vanished into the labyrinth of crates and equipment. He let out a long sigh as he freed Sherlock's other leg, "Well, obviously I solved the crime without you."

"You have blood on your hands," Sherlock commented, extending his long legs and wincing as the blood came back to his toes, triggering a pins and needles sensation. He sighed softly.

"It's not mine," Mycroft told him calmly. He felt satisfied and powerful as he looked over his younger brother, who was completely intact aside from some bruises and the shallow cut on his hand, "Does your hand hurt?"

"It stings a bit, yes," Sherlock said, not to be outcooled.

"Well, your flatmate can probably attend to that for you," Mycroft said, standing and offering Sherlock a hand up. Right hand to right hand, Sherlock pulled himself up stiffly with his brother's assistance.

The elder Holmes looked him over appraisingly, then commented, "I'll phone Anthea. She'll be here in a moment. Were you waiting long?"

"A few hours," Sherlock said, steadying himself against Mycroft's shoulder, "It was fairly uneventful. I didn't see Moriarty or Moran until right around when they brought me out to see you. It was strange... they didn't..." He paused as though trying to find the right word, "They didn't want me for anything other than bait."

Mycroft frowned, noting the odd tone that Sherlock's voice had taken. He seemed almost upset that Moriarty hadn't been personally interested in him. He felt a twinge of sympathy and he leaned almost imperceptibly against Sherlock. The younger man looked at him intently, recognizing the show of affection for what it was. Sherlock cleared his throat and clapped Mycroft on the shoulder manfully, "Good work, Mycroft. You finally did something yourself."

Mycroft sighed in his long-suffering way, "I do things by myself all the time, Sherlock. You just never pay attention because you're so self-absorbed. Your psychologist always told mummy that when we were younger."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "She was an idiot."

Mycroft chuckled and walked his brother out through the creepy, dimly lit warehouse to Anthea's waiting car. He settled into the seat and watched as his underweight sibling seemed to curl up his slim limbs like a spider, his energy spent. It was easy to map out his evening. He would go home and refuse John’s help then thoughtfully, soulfully clean the cut on his hand by himself. Then he would lie on the couch with his head in his lover's lap, and together they would half-watch telly as Sherlock told him about his day. John would fret and hold him tightly, he would have bad dreams and then Sherlock would hold him. They completed and complemented each other, and though they would never marry, they would die within moments or hours of one another because there was no way to greet a world that the other was not a part of.

He knew that he had also met his own match. Where Sherlock had covertly searched for his entire life for someone who would understand him, Mycroft had spent his withdrawing further and further into himself until he could scarcely trace the patterns of his own mind. Jim Moriarty's intrusion into his life had been unwelcome and jarring, but as he watched his brother doze off against the window, he wondered if it was possible to love someone without liking them. This wasn't love, but he couldn’t deny that he felt a stirring of emotion that was new and intriguing. He touched his fingers absently to his lips, letting his breath out slowly.


End file.
